


Witness

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: It’s important that he see it—all the places Sam’s hurt. Sam’s bleeding from a dozen wounds that he can see, wincing every time he breathes. Dean wants to strip him down and look him over from head to toe—see for himself what those bastards did to him, find out how many lives they’re owed in recompense.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 190





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I've Got You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388092) by [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux). 



> I love all of dollylux's work so much. They're such a brilliant storyteller. I read their fic, "I've Got You," and was so struck by the portrayal of caretaking and delayed healing. I just had to write my own small post-episode fic in response. <3

It’s important that he see it—all the places that Sam’s hurt. Sam’s bleeding from a dozen wounds that he can see and who knows how many more he can't, wincing every time he breathes. There are bandages on his feet, and he’s unsteady when he stands. Dean’s fingers twitch for his gun. Leaving that bitch alive—it rubs every fiber of his being the wrong way. He wants _blood._

Dean wants to strip Sam down and look him over from head to toe—see for himself what those bastards did to him, find out how many lives they’re owed in recompense. But now’s not the time, and fuck if that doesn’t rankle too.

The British douchebags stand at their back, watching them with smug, smarmy impressions, with flat, beady snake eyes. Dean would love nothing more than to pop them both right between the eyes, and he weighs his odds—he doesn’t believe for a second Mick is unarmed, but he might be able to get two shots off if he starts with him.

But Sammy is wincing and hobbling out the door on his own two feet, not even letting Cas take his weight—attaboy, Sammy, never let ‘em see you sweat—and Dean contents himself with covering their retreat in case anyone gets any funny ideas.

Sam visibly sags as soon as the cellar door bangs shut behind them, and Dean’s at his side in an instant, slotting himself under Sammy’s arm, draping one big paw around his neck.

“Jeez, you weigh a ton,” Dean says, not because Sam’s heavy—although he is—and not because he minds. It’s something to say; it’s what they do. It’s a way to let Sam know he’s here with him, and Sam snorts faintly.

Dean tightens his arm where it’s wrapped around his brother’s waist, taking as much of his weight as Sam will give him.

“We’re almost there,” he says, and Sam nods.

Dean glances behind him to see their mother with a gun, still covering their exit. _Mom._ No matter how many times Dean looks at her, it never stops being a kick in the teeth, and he can only imagine how Sam feels—but none of that matters right now.

Nothing matters but getting Sam into the car, getting him home, getting him away from this godforsaken hellhole. Mary covers the cellar door right up until the moment she gets into the car, while Cas opens the back door and Dean helps Sam inside, biting his mouth against a wince when he accidentally jostles Sam’s bandaged foot against the door, and Sam can’t quite hold back a yelp.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Dean’s saying, little nothings. “C’mon, shove over. It’s not even that bad.”

His words are rough, but his tone is gentle. The sooner they get out of here the better—there’s been no movement from the house, but Dean knows better than to trust it—but he’s in no hurry. He lets Sam shove over in his own sweet time. The man’s fucking earned it, after everything.

Dean slides in after him, and there’s no discussion. Cas gets behind the wheel, Mary takes the passenger seat, and they can’t drive away from this nightmare fast enough.

* * *

They’re ten miles away before Dean asks their mom to pass him the bottle of pain meds they keep in the glove compartment—the good stuff, for special occasions. She rummages gamely through the glovebox, shoving aside a rainbow of motel matchbooks, knives, and pens. She retrieves the orange canister with a rattle, giving it a shake for good measure.

She turns it over in her hand, quirking her lips at the label. Dean can just see it from his seat, and a frail, fluttering thing in his chest beats its wings in the hope that the expression on her face is pride.

“Couldn’t Castiel heal Sam?” Mom asks. She turns to look at Sam, pale and drawn in the back seat. He musters a watery grin that lands closer to a grimace, and her eyebrows pinch together. “That’s something angels can do, right?”

“I could,” Cas agrees, but makes no move to do so.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Sam says. “Really.”

Mary looks from Sam to Cas to Dean, scrutinizing each of them in turn. There’s something she wants to say. Even without knowing her for more than a handful of days, Dean can see it—he’s sure Sam can too, even under the pain—but he doesn’t volunteer anything, and neither does anyone else. It’s been too long a day. He’s just too goddamn tired, too angry—too worried, underneath it.

His hand tightens on Sam’s calf, and Sam’s eyes cut to him, a flicker of acknowledgment and all the boost he needs.

“Alright,” Mary says, still unsure. She passes back the bottle of pills with someone else’s name on it, and Sam takes it in grateful fingers.

“Thanks, Mom.”

 _Mom._ Will wonders never fucking cease.

Sam is quiet the whole ride home, and Dean keeps looking at him, tracing the cut on the side of his face with his eyes, the wet, red meat of it. He bites the inside of his lip raw before he even realizes he’s doing it. The radio stays off, nothing but the sound of the engine and the road beneath them to pad the uncomfortable silence. 

Sam stares out the window, and that’s how Dean knows it’s bad. He won’t look at any of them, and Dean wonders if he can convince Sam to take a couple more pills, just enough to wipe that look off his face and help him slide down under into the land of the sleeping dreamless.

Sam slides his hand across the leather seat and catches Dean’s fingers. He gives Dean’s hand a squeeze, hard enough to grind his bones together, and Dean doesn’t so much as wince. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s right back.

He’ll get Sam home and he’ll get him undressed. He’ll run his fingers alongside every wound, every gash, every break in his skin, touch him until the fine tremors shaking the edges of his hands still. He’ll make it okay.

He leaves the pills in his jacket pocket, but he fiddles with the bottle all the same, working his thumb around and around the pop-top all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hey on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture), if you wanna.


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